


a bard's lament (or something similar)

by Xygenscenic



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Sharing a Bed, dandelion telling shit like it is, geralt being a bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22706776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xygenscenic/pseuds/Xygenscenic
Summary: The course of Geralt's life has led him down many strange roads with a multitude of various companions, but none more stalwart than Dandelion.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, gerlion - Relationship
Comments: 18
Kudos: 126
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	a bard's lament (or something similar)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DangerDuchess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerDuchess/gifts), [kujamonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kujamonkey).



> to all bards who inspire their witchers NOT to be mopey bitches

“Shove over, will you?” Dandelion made a shooing gesture and then yawned in a very wide and un-comely manner he likely never would have affected if the person he was telling to “shove over” was a woman. The witcher was not, in fact, a woman. None of them were. It simply wasn’t done. Geralt grunted and made room upon the palliasse for his companion. 

He had been on the cusp of a deep, warm, dreamless sleep, his belly full for the first time in what felt like months, and his mind clear of irksome nightmares. For this offense, he could have throttled the bard, whom the witcher had been absolutely certain would find his way home with one of the wealthier girls their host had invited to a party he had thrown supposedly in the witcher’s honor. _A party for me, but no proper bed,_ he thought with some bitterness, though the softness of the palliasse was leagues improved over that of the cold, hard earth. 

The witcher and Dandelion were being put up by a “generous” merchant who had first hired Geralt to deal with something in his well, which had been naught but a trapped cat, and then a few meddlesome imps, playing tricks on the town from their base in the forest. These latter, the White Wolf had merely scared off. It would have been no mean feat for anyone else, but Geralt’s name and face were known. The imps fled at the sight of him; he had not even bothered with elixirs or signs. The “demon sorcerer, White Hair” they called him. This had brought an ugly smile to his face. It did so again as he recalled the incident. 

The first part had been easy. What happened after and had him sore and tired was not the imps, but the beast they had taken captive and planned to use against the village for their next “prank”. Geralt had moved swiftly after hearing accounts of the escalation. Imps, he knew, had a horrific sense of humor when left to their own devices and this next step might very well have leveled the town. 

“You’re not taking the lute to bed,” growled the witcher, popping one eye open to stare his companion down as the bard waffled with indecision. 

“Well why not?” Dandelion clutched the elven-made thing as if it were his last hope for survival. Had it not been for Geralt, maybe the lute would have been enough to protect the bard, but that was unlikely; music did not, as it happened, soothe all savage beasts. “I haven’t finished my latest work. Do you want to hear it?”

“No.” Geralt knew by now that warning Dandelion he could not play the lute in bed was as good as begging him to do so and that denying him the privilege of telling him all about his newest ballad was almost guaranteed to compel the bard to do that exact thing. 

“It’s called Imps and Stone, or… well, so far it is; it’s a work in progress, naturally.” Dandelion went on as if he had not even heard Geralt, who was fully prepared to steal the bard’s bonnet and use it to cover his head. Dandelion was likely what any normal person might have called his best friend and as such had earned certain privileges, not least among those the right to press on when Geralt’s slit pupils were completely vertical and leveled at him in pure, unadulterated irritation. The bard lifted a hand to strum as he laid himself down next to the witcher and Geralt lifted a hand to stop it. 

“Not tonight,” he rumbled, “please. I need sleep. I’m full and I need sleep.” 

Dandelion seemed to consider this and then, after a long moment’s pause, seemed to decide that it was, indeed, the best course of action to honor his friend’s wishes. He sat back up, stood, ambled over to a hook on the wall, hung up his lute, and turned. “There,” he said, “is that acceptable? May I now have the privilege of sharing a palliasse with you, o’ White Hair?”

“I’ll think about it.” There was humor in the witcher’s voice. Dandelion had that effect on him. He could never stay irritated with the bard for long, though he was sure at some level, Dandelion, or Julian Alfred Pankratz, Vicount de Lettenhove as he was known to some, deserved it. He had not returned to his position, indicating Dandelion was not, in fact, being banished. Geralt was too tired to continue any sort of game. They had done this too many times. There would always be other opportunities. 

“I’ve never seen a proper golem, you know,” Dandelion said, if only to fill the silence. He tugged at his jerkin, considering the palliasse, as if deciding whether or not it was bug-riddled or if it would jab into his soft, supple flesh. Geralt hadn’t thought twice and, despite the chilly weather, had stripped to the waist, glad to be out of his clothes and to have them laundered. 

“And you won’t, if you’re lucky,” said Geralt. “That wasn’t a proper golem in any sense of the word, else we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Surely you…” Dandelion seemed to trail off a little, an odd sensation upon Geralt’s ears, when the man was at a loss for words. He knew how highly Dandelion thought of his combat prowess. Most people did. They tried hiring him for all sorts of things, tasks better suited to whole groups, raiding parties who were trained for such matters. It was a common mistake, he considered, to overestimate something one did not understand. 

“Surely I what?” Why did he feel the need to press this matter? Was it that he had been awoken and was now irritated? Certainly not. Geralt’s anger had subsided almost as quickly as it had awoken within him. Now, he was just sore and exhausted. So why bother starting this conversation? He hated his own lack of impulse control in these situations, truly. 

“You’re a witcher, Geralt.” As if that answered everything.

“Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me, Dandelion; I had all but forgotten.” There was still humor in Geralt’s voice, but this was a more cutting sort, almost caustic. The witcher had not meant to be so sharp, but being a witcher did not solve all of life’s problems; rather it tended to create more than it fixed and inconvenienced the piss out of him, were he to be asked his opinion on the subject. 

He never was.

“Tsk, you know what I mean,” Dandelion hissed irritably, finally deciding that his colorful jerkin was better left hanging up than becoming rumpled while he slept. He disrobed and then moved back over and tossed himself onto the palliasse next to Geralt, blowing out the single candle in the room which Geralt had been too tired or lazy to snuff. He had half a mind to scold the witcher for this act of carelessness. After all, he thought, Geralt doesn’t need a light to see in the dark, so why keep a candle lit? Unless…

“Aye, I do,” growled Geralt, “since it’s what most people think and you’re not so damn complicated as you like to make yourself out to be.”

“Cutting tonight, aren’t we?” Dandelion did not sound offended or bothered. This suited Geralt fine, because he had not sought to offend, only to needle and even then only because Dandelion had awoken him. Had the bard slipped in and snuffed the candle flame without a word, the witcher would have slept on, unhindered. 

In response, Geralt only grunted, sighing deeply and glad for the lack of light. He liked having the advantage, visually-speaking. Dandelion could not see him, but he could see the bard, clear as day if need be. Dandelion settled in nevertheless, uncaring of this difference, perhaps only peripherally aware of it. 

“Why didn’t you go home with one of the girls fawning over you at the party?” Now it was Geralt’s turn to speak and fill the silence. He could have kicked himself for it, but Dandelion would have noticed that. 

“Oh Geralt, you’re quaint. This town is far too small.” Dandelion spoke this with a flourish of his hand above them. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The wind gusted outside and rattled the rafters and the single window. The bard shivered and snatched at the blankets. Rather than give them up, as he normally did, Geralt held fast. 

“Quaint, am I? In a small town, you don’t want to be remembered as a lecher, because that’ll stay in their minds for years to come and tarnish your frankly incredible reputation, eh? Have I about summed it up?” Yes, he was suddenly feeling cutting. Dandelion tugged at the blanket and clicked his tongue.

“That,” he confirmed, “and the pickings are slim, my friend, very slim this far from Novigrad. Besides, I must be seen to have _standards_.” 

Geralt was familiar with the bard’s love of Novigradian girls. He had been bombarded with cookware by one such, in fact, and would never forget it. To this day, the witcher avoided the street upon which the girl had lived, on the rare occasions he visited Novigrad. 

“Didn’t you once tell me a palliasse without a girl was no palliasse at all, but an empty, unfinished thing?” 

“So you _do_ listen to me!” Dandelion’s voice rose an octave with smug pleasure. 

“Only because you won’t stop and under such heavy bombardment, anyone’s defenses are bound to fall eventually.” He heard the sound of a palm slapping flesh and knew Dandelion had clutched at the left side of his chest and was mimicking horror. Geralt rolled his eyes and knew the bard had probably envisioned him doing so. As he had pointed out that Dandelion was relatively uncomplicated, so the bard had once done to him. Turnabout was, after all, fair play.

“I am wounded, Geralt, absolutely wounded and frankly taken aback that you would accuse me of verbally ‘bombarding’ you, against your will, as if you do not cling on every word that comes from my talented lips! There are people in this world, mark me, who would die, absolutely perish to be where you are now!” He had a way about him which absolutely over-dramatized every situation possible, when he had time. Right now, he felt, he had plenty.

“What? Next to you on a straw mattress in a country merchant’s loft?” As if on cue, an animal shifted beneath them and they were both reminded, somewhat humorously, that though this room was habitable, it was positioned up a ladder, above a barn full of livestock. “Oh aye, this is truly ideal. I couldn’t think of a better place to be.” 

“Your sarcasm is noted, Geralt, thank you.” Dandelion’s tone was sour, but he could not deny that they were not exactly being put up in any kind of palatial estate. Though, in the bard’s recollection, the only times they were politely hosted was among nonhumans and before people recognized Geralt for who and what he was. Toussaint, a tiny duchy, was the sole exception to this set of rules and Dandelion, much as he loved the place, considered it an outlier.

He was also a wanted man in Toussaint, at the moment.

Geralt had shifted and was now lying on his back as well, hands folded on his stomach. They had no particular place to be at any kind of reasonable time the following day, though Geralt usually didn't linger. He was a restless soul, this aspect of himself the subject of more than one of Dandelion's accursed ballads. 

"At least this palliasse has room enough for us to lie shoulder to shoulder," commented the bard offhandedly. Geralt's chuckle was raspy and unpleasant, much like his speaking voice, but it was also genuine.

"So you'd rather not spoon in the wee hours, then?"

At this, Dandelion scoffed and crossed his legs at the ankles, shifting the blanket, having finally retrieved it. Their covering was equal parts more and less luxuriant than furs, though Dandelion could not quite place precisely why. He thought that if he could, it would make for a jaunty, bawdy ballad. Geralt's shifting had indicated he was tired of holding tightly to the blanket, regardless of his comfort level and the bard had taken full advantage. 

The moon had risen in the east and was beginning to creep its way across the witcher's pale, unclothed torso. That Dandelion was attempting to wrest the entire blanket from the witcher neither surprised nor dismayed Geralt, who took his friend's mannerisms in stride. He suspected Dandelion did the same for him. 

In fact, Dandelion made so many more concessions for him than he had time to consider that Geralt was beginning to wonder, somewhere in the back of his mind, why he even bothered keeping anyone else's company… someone else, in particular, maybe a few someones, but one specific person leapt immediately to mind. 

Yennefer always did that. She leapt to the forefront of Geralt's mind and planted herself there, unwilling to make room. Even when she was stubbornly fleeing him for her own, varied reasons, she was always with him. The witcher wondered if he did the same to her. He suspected he did, but perhaps only on occasion. Geralt did not infect Yennefer as she did him. There was no way he could.

"Are you thinking of her again? Geralt, by the gods, YOU should have gone home with one of those girls at the party. Clearly, you could use the distraction. And don't try to wriggle out of this, dammit, I know the sound of her silence. Pensivity doesn't suit you, witcher."

Geralt reined in the rising anger swelling from his guts, though not without effort. Only Dandelion could strike so deeply and with such precision… Dandelion and Yennefer. He gritted his teeth and spoke evenly as his mood would allow. “I’m not thinking of her, so drop it.”

This momentary distraction had allowed the bard to gain controlling interest in the blanket, which was of a coarse, woolen material, thick enough to block out the cold, but hardly comfortable. He wondered if it wasn’t a horse blanket, but had not gotten a good look at it in broad daylight. He would have preferred furs to this, though the weather was not terribly chilly just yet. 

Autumn had fallen over the land and the leaves were turning beautiful colors, inspiring brilliant poetry. For this, he was grateful, as they had arrived at precisely the right time. Only the oncoming winter dampened his mood, and even then, even at night, when the colors of those trees had changed to dull blue hues, to deep purple and many shades of gray, the poet still had his muse and inspiration. If it was not a girl, then it was the sky, the stars, and the moon, now waxing full and pregnant, casting a few shards of icy, white light across his bristling companion’s bare midsection, making ugly scars uglier, and highlighting the man’s paleness. 

“She isn’t good for you, Geralt. She’s trouble and you both know it. She runs from you, every single time… and if she doesn’t run, you do. By the gods, a bloody golden dragon said that—”

“Three Jackdaws,” Geralt snapped, cutting Dandelion off, “said we were made for each other.” 

“And that nothing would come of it,” hissed the bard, turning onto his side and propping himself up on an elbow as the beams of moonlight traced their way over Geralt’s torso, lancing across him like three deadly, silver-white dagger tips. Dandelion found the shapes disconcerting and minutely glanced out the single window in the loft room, a luxury in this part of the world, despite the presence of beasts beneath them. It resembled, to his poetic mind, a pitchfork of three prongs, threatening his friend. 

“I have sharp ears, Geralt,” Dandelion continued, ignoring the gooseflesh which rose upon his skin. “I’m a poet, remember? The nigh-unpronouncable Villentretenmerth was more than succinct in _his_ pronouncement, if not his draconic name. Yennefer isn’t deaf; she heard it too. 

“She doesn’t love you, Geralt, she loves… what you cannot give her and the idea of what she cannot have herself. That isn’t proper love. Maybe you’re content allowing her to play with you and use you, because at some level, you believe you’re using her too. Perhaps that’s the case; I can’t know for certain, but I know _you_ , Geralt. 

“You can’t deceive me. You can deceive yourself, but stop trying to lie to me, dammit. You’re absolutely miserable, whether you’re with her or not. She makes you twist and yearn and push off perfectly happy, normal girls because of some misguided notion of… of I don’t know what, but I can tell you this: she isn’t waiting for _you_.”

“Oh and you bloody well are, are you?!” Geralt thundered, sitting bolt upright, obscuring the tri-tipped shape that had been crawling its way over him. 

“Well maybe I am!” The words had clearly slipped from the poet’s nimble mouth before he could stop them, not an uncommon happenstance. Geralt’s back was to the window, so Dandelion could only see the minute light reflected in his uncomfortably cat-like eyes, not the expression upon his pale, scarred face. His chest was heaving with emotion, however, and he could not seem to find words to rescue himself. The bard’s nimble lips had finally failed him. 

“Maybe I am, Geralt,” he finally whispered, conceding defeat at his own hand. 

“You shouldn’t,” rumbled the witcher quietly. 

“I know,” said the bard. “I… I’ve always known.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have recently been encouraged by many friends to start posting the short little ficlets I have available, since I don't have the stones for a longer attempt... not on my own. Thank you, dear reader, for giving me a shot and thank you, many friends, for reminding me it's okay to put myself out there. This one is best read if you're familiar with the audiobooks, read by Peter Kenny. I believe the Last Wish is on youtube and it is absolutely a joy. His voice, I believe, conveys their conversations in a way no one else's does. As a result, when I write them, I hear HIM in my head.


End file.
